The Women Who Walked in Nobody’s Shadow

Notes from the field on polling day

They came from places where tears hold more water than most ponds. Or hand pumps.
They came from rural cobblestoned lanes where even seasoned thekedaars are too scared to build roads, lest dacoits intervene. (And the dacoits, we learn, are getting younger and younger here).

The cobblestones here are not your hill station dream stroll, so longed for, slated for holidays, but a hard, tough road where road rollers haven’t deigned yet to reach. On stones cut possibly by these women, they walked in block colours, uniformly covering face with ghunghat, feet in chappals.

Sometimes looking out for each other, in twos or small groups.

Sometimes walking in a single file.

This was no song and dance stuff. Voting had started, booths opened at 7 am and they knew what they were heading towards. Together. Clutching a white little something in their hands.

One cannot, in all likelihood, think of any other day in the year when the tar that criss-crosses India sees the shadow of so many ID cards on its indifferent turf – all in the span of a day. One can’t really tell if the fingers gripping the pehchaan patras are chapped, but visceral memories of hands held remind us of the softness that is sandpapered by circumstance and the vicious yet polite fatalism that mixes with feudalism in these parts.

What is unarguably certain is that the I-card or the parchi or the Aadhaar is held firmly, and matter-of-factly as they carry on. With the modicum of possibility, a change in leadership brings. Everything in their gait, pretty much the opposite of drama queen. As we walk past them and smile, they smile back tentatively and it is only when their eyes fully meet ours that the smile spreads full beam, as it often happens between women. A spontaneous connect.

We know these women. They are the first adivaasis to farm on hard land in hilly Bargarh, which used to be thick forest once upon a time. They are those in whose sickle-armed hands crops have grown, crops have died, due to less rain and no water channels. They are those you can hear the sighs of in Panhai just as they load their heads with wood to catch a train and sell it the same day. The equation in their heads being, one meal for their family that night.

She could be 19-year-old Sangeeta from a Dalit family in Bhauri, closer to Karwi town, who works a sewing machine after returning from college.

She could be a stone crusher. A stone quarrier. A construction site labourer, and MNREGA job card holder – the women mazdoors of Bundelkhand are, after all, keeping a very strained rural economy afloat.

But they are not a vote bank yet, enough for somebody to specially look out for them.

On a daily wage, a day off for voting is simply money not earned. How does one calculate the daily loss they must have incurred, we wonder, as we see them walk back home in the blistering noon sun? What GPS in the world can grasp these kilometres of hope against hope?

While the women walked, the men talked. In groups, on bikes and tractors that they rode on to go vote. Public transport was missing on a day which is meant to create governments for, of and by the people. And so it was that they walked through farm fields and pagdandis, alongside railway tracks, and crouching under faataks. A landscape that scrubs you into immediate submission, from the mud that falls off the craggy walls, locally called morem, which is only deceptively spongy with stones lurking underneath. It is also all dusty as subtle hell. There are plants withering away in the unexpected February heat, a heat that hits the skin like a family tree of blossoming prickly heat. As you go along this undulating cragginess, you suddenly hit a non-perennial rivulet and a rocky tapering cliff that again seems gently reclining, but is known to go from dry to slippery and steep to stuck in a matter of seconds.

It’s the kind of landscape that has a way of making a place in your heart with its ruffian turns, but it also never quite lets you forget how it holds heart crushing truths within. The Vindhyas here maybe a broken chain of mountains as is the delivery of public goods by the netas, but there was something else tangible on voting day in Bundelkhand. Something in the forgotten promise of the nation state – that we are all equal as citizens. Or can perhaps hope to be for a day.

These women didn’t wait to find out. They walked maybe thinking of these things. Not as a protest march, but a silencer guide for everyday doers. Quietly. Willingly. Showing up, in a spirit that voting percentages can hardly fathom.

The voting centres were curiously all called Adarsh Matdaan Kendras. Cynics can bullet point this as a futile urgency, commentators can go into clichéd loops about how democracy wins, but from first timers to bent by (literally) time old timers, the women of Bundelkhand came from the bruised corners of this, our nation-statehood, putting a silencer on the need to show or demand group validation, be it selfie or state policy.
Whoever wins their vote, they have already won ours.

Tisha Srivastav, a part time editorial consultant with Khabar Lahariya sends in snapshots of her experiences in Bundelkhand reporting, with Bundelkhandi reporters. Catch her live-tweeting some of the action here!

MOBILE IN BANDA: DAY SIX 

Some straight talk with Banda's working women 

The same forthright political science teacher, Dr. Laxmi Tripathi, regales us with an unexpected story about a politician, elections and patriarchy. Apparently, a Mahavir Singh, from Banda who was a deputy minister in CM Sampoornanand’s cabinet of yore, did not allow his wife to go out and vote and is said to have lost by one vote. (A google search later throws up the name of said politician in a Paul Brass book reference, but no mention of this story) It is nevertheless a great opener for a welcome chat with a teacher, who as she says herself, encourages young students to vote for their future. What party affiliation that means, you are welcome to guess. A genial history teacher sitting next to her, reminds us that the sitting MP from BJP, has done nothing for Banda’s greatly forgotten neighbour, the Kalinjar fort. Not even in the name of tradition that they keep harping on, not even in the name of adopting villages, a la Modi, which the sitting MP too has, in Kalinjar. Kalinjar is a major site evoking multiple Indian vintage, be it Ramayana, Mahabharat, Kala Bhairava, the water tank heritage of Bundelkhand or the shell that is said to have killed Sher Shah Suri here.

Some straight speak from the women of the land, recorded by a straight shooter Khabar Lahariya reporter.

The latter continue to report on the places they call home, village, town or in between. Learning in the process to see home for what it is - changing and unchanged.
A mobile camera and jazba, ground up voices sharing editorial material pronto on WhatsApp, while continuing to have its print newspaper. Khabar Lahariya - the pyjama maybe old, but newer drawstrings, ever welcome I say.

Tisha Srivastav, a part time editorial consultant with Khabar Lahariya sends in snapshots of her experiences in Bundelkhand reporting, with Bundelkhandi reporters. Catch her live-tweeting some of the action here!

MOBILE IN BANDA: DAY FIVE 

Political meva, Hindu-Muslim seva?

The official notice board resembling a sarkari board, bureaucrat on duty style, highlights a Muslim and a Hindu, at the SP zila office.

He praises Meera to the skies, even as she is unmoved by this very sudden public adulation. The Hindu-Muslim rhetoric in Mullah Mulayam terrain, reminds me that the story of this town which knows violence intimately, yet has an unghettoised Hindu-Muslim social fabric, deserves unravelling. But for now, this is election season and you can see rows of keds have replaced chappals, as mineral water bottles have replaced ghadaas. Meeting a politician thus, is also an exercise in watching waste being generated, one of the apathetic side-lines of generous local hospitality. 

This particular candidate’s switch from Samaajwadi Party to Congress to SP to now the gathbandhan has a local political science teacher fuming, ‘ Candidates have moved parties but this business of a daughter gets ticket from one party, another relative in another party – this is new and shows the value placed on power, not ideals.’ Her remark reminds me of the meeting with the said candidate, who when he finally arrives, proceeds to waylay reporter Meera’s question of charges against him, with a proud dabang response, ‘we got the bureaucrat who made those charges transferred.’ Meera walks out silently and also, a trifle relieved, that the chase over this guy, is done. After a day of chasing politicians with all their drama of power, it is a relief when Meera suggests a trip to the Mahavidyalaya, where we find these teachers.

Tisha Srivastav, a part time editorial consultant with Khabar Lahariya sends in snapshots of her experiences in Bundelkhand reporting, with Bundelkhandi reporters. Catch her live-tweeting some of the action here!

बरगद की छाँव: बुंदेलखंड से एक प्रेम कहानी 

मार्च के महीने की कड़ी धूप थी पर हम दोनों की बातें मानो बरगद की छाँव जैसे लग रही थी। 

पॉडकास्ट यहाँ सुने 

मेरा नाम रूचि है। यह मार्च के महीने की बात है, सुबह के 11 बज रहे थे। हलकी हल्की धुप थी, मैं कॉलेज से वापस घर आ रही थी। जैसे ही मैं अपने मोहल्ले में पहुंची तो सुनसान रस्ते में हलकी धुप तेज़ हुई और तभी सामने से एक लड़का आते दिखाई दिया। हाथ में बैग लेकर, वह सांवले रंग का था। पहले मैंने उसको एक अजनबी के रूप में देखा, पर जैसे ही वह मेरे पास आया तो उसने मुझे रोका। मैं अचानक से चौंक गयी। मैंने मुड़कर देखा और मेरे मन में कई तरह के सवाल आ रहे थे। इससे पहले के मैं उससे कुछ पूछ पाती, उसने मुस्कुरा कर धीमी आवाज़ में पुछा, “तुम कहाँ गयी थी?” मैंने जवाब दिया कि कॉलेज से आई हूँ, जब मैंने उससे परिचय पूछा तो उसने ज़ोर से हँसते हुए कहा, “अच्छा, तो तुम मुझे नहीं जानती हो?” तो मैंने कहा नहीं। तब उसने मुझे बताया की वो सेम कॉलेज से है।  फिर मैंने दुबारा से नाम पता पूछा, तो उसने बताया कि 15 किलोमीटर दूर के गाउँ का रहना वाला है। फिर कहा कि उसे कुछ जल्दी काम और चला गया। इसके बाद मैंने उसके बारे में सोचा भी नहीं।

तीसरे दिन हम फिर कॉलेज गए, पेपर देने, उसका भी पेपर था। हम दोनों फिर वहां मिल गए और हँसते हुए पढाई के बारे में बात करते हुए चलने लगे। 2 किलोमीटर इस तरह हम दोनों पैदल चलते रहे और रोड तक आ गए।

मार्च के महीने की कड़ी धूप थी पर हम दोनों की बातें मानो बरगद की छाँव जैसे लग रही थी। रस्ते भर हम दोनों ने एक दूसरे के काम के बारे में पूछा। वह पहले से मेरे घर परिवार के बारे में जानता था। उसने मुझसे मेरा नंबर माँगा। मुझे उसकी मुस्करा कर बात करने और खुल कर बात करने की आदत बहुत पसंद आई। वह महिलओं और लड़कियों के बारे में सोचता था। उसकी सबसे अच्छी बात मुझे यही लगी की महिलाओं को आगे आते देखकर उसको ख़ुशी होती थी।

पता चला कि वह दिल्ली में रह कर कंपनी में काम करता था, और उसने कहा कि अगर  मुझे कभी किसी चीज़ की जानकारी की ज़रूरत पड़ी तो वो मेरा सहयोग कर सकता है। मैंने उसको अपना नंबर दे दिया, और और हम दोनों अपने-अपने घर चले गए। पर मैंने उसका नंबर सेव नहीं किया।

दिल्ली जाकर उसने एक दिन कॉल किया। जब पहली बार उसका फ़ोन आया और उसने अपना परिचय दिया तो अच्छा लगा, मुझे ख़ुशी हुई। हम दोनों 10 मिनट तक तो काम के बारे में बात करते रहे। उसके बाद जब भी उसका फ़ोन आता तो हम आधा आधा घंटे तक बात करते। उसने अपने दोस्तों और अपने ऑफिस के काम के बारे में बताया। संडे के दिन क्योंकि उसका ऑफिस बंद रहता था और मैं भी फ्री होती थी, तो हम एक घंटे तक बात करते। हम दोनों खुल कर बात करते रहे। बातों-बातों में ही हमारा मनोरजन भी हो जाता है। अब तो बारिश का मौसम आ गया है, और हम इसी महीने में मिलने वाले है। उसके घर में कोई कार्यक्रम है तो मुझे बुलाया है। अभी हमने सोचा नहीं है की जायेंगे या नहीं, पर मैं कोशिश करुँगी।

अब आगे की कहानी सुनने के लिए तो इंतज़ार तो करना पड़ेगा, मुझे भी।